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into the bedroom,
leaving the door open behind him.
    Clarissa
stared after him, stunned at the avalanche of information he’d just poured on
her. A criminal? She was wanted for a list of felonies, including murder?
    The
thought rattled around inside her head. Murder. According to the FBI agent,
she’d killed someone.
    Her
hand went to her side, the pads of her fingers brushing the bandage. She’d been
shot, that much was true. Maybe she’d killed in self-defense.
    Clarissa
released a pent-up breath of relief. Self-defense was different from outright
murder. It was Okay to defend yourself. She couldn’t feel guilty for something
she not only didn’t remember, but had been an act of self-preservation.
    And
at least she had a name now.
    “Clarissa
O’Connell,” she whispered to herself, letting the name roll around her tongue
like the whiskey had. The name had the warm feel of familiarity to it but
stirred no memories.
    Clarissa
touched the bump on her head, wincing at the tenderness. She’d seen movies
where people hit their heads and lost their memories. It was usually temporary,
wasn’t it? She had to believe that. The possibility that it might be permanent
was too horrifying to think about, so she wouldn’t.
    Suddenly,
Clarissa had a burning desire to find a mirror. It was an odd feeling, not
knowing what she looked like. Touching her hair, she saw that it was long
enough to pull a lock of it around to see the color. Red. Hmm. Not too crazy
about that.
    Getting
up from the couch proved unpleasant, the bullet wound was painfully tender and
her head still ached. The blanket dropped, and cold air brushed her skin. Clarissa
cast a quick glance into the darkened bedroom but couldn’t see anything. Aware
that the cop might be watching her, she pulled on the T-shirt and pants as
quickly as she could. The pants were about six inches too long, and she had to
roll the waistband several times to get them to stay up.
    The
cabin wasn’t terribly large, the main space given over to a large expanse of
windows along the back. The ceiling arched high overhead, and Clarissa could
see the snow still falling outside. Now that she was inside and warm, she could
appreciate the beauty of the scene, and paused for a moment to watch. The snow
clung to the already laden branches of the fir trees, weighing them down even
more. The drifts looked as though they’d been sculpted by an artist, rather
than the careless wind.
    The
warmth of the fire was at her back, and despite her current predicament,
Clarissa smiled to herself. She liked the snow. Maybe she always had? Or maybe
not. Regardless, it made her feel less like a stranger in her own skin.
    Speaking
of which…Clarissa resumed her search for a bathroom, and consequently, a
mirror. Easing through one of the two closed doors, she found an office space, complete
with a heavy oak desk. A computer monitor stood on top of the burnished wood’s
surface, and Clarissa stopped to stare at it. She felt drawn to it, almost an
itch in her hands to sit down at the keyboard. How odd. Resisting the urge to
satisfy her curiosity, and seeing as there was no attached bath, she retreated.
Only a closet full of coats, boots, gloves and other assorted winter
paraphernalia lay behind door number two.
    Which
left only one option.
    A
clock above the fireplace showed a half hour had passed since the cop had gone
to bed. Surely he’d be asleep by now? He’d seemed exhausted, with lines of
fatigue around his eyes. Not that Clarissa should care if he was tired. Sure,
he’d saved her, but he’d been chasing her in the first place, accused her of
lying, and was going to turn her in to the FBI.
    She’d
have to do something about that part.
    Pausing
inside the doorway, Clarissa let her eyes adjust to the darkness. The glow from
the fireplace wasn’t much, but enough so she could just see the outline of the
bed. An inky rectangle to her left seemed to promise an open doorway to